Roumanian Stories, Translated from the Original Roumanian. Anonymous

did it happen, Jew?” asked some one.

      “Leiba Zibal,” said the innkeeper in a loud voice, and with a lofty gesture, “goes to Jassy to tell the Rabbi that Leiba Zibal is a Jew no longer. Leiba Zibal is a Christian—for Leiba Zibal has lighted a torch for Christ.”

      And the man moved slowly up the hill, towards the sunrise, like the prudent traveller who knows that the long journey is not achieved with hasty steps.

      At Manjoala’s Inn

       Table of Contents

      By I. L. Caragiale

      It took a quarter of an hour to reach Manjoala’s Inn. From there to Upper Popeshti was about nine miles; at an easy pace, that meant one hour and a half. A good hack—if they gave it oats at the inn, and three-quarters’ of an hour rest—could do it comfortably. That is to say, one quarter of an hour and three-quarters of an hour made one hour, on to Popeshti was one hour and a half, that made two and a half. It was past seven already; at ten o’clock at latest, I should be with Pocovnicu Iordache. I was rather late—I ought to have started earlier—but, after all, he expected me.

      I was turning this over in my mind when I saw in the distance, a good gun-shot length away, a great deal of light coming from Manjoala’s Inn, for it still retained that name. It was now really Madame Manjoala’s inn—the husband died some five years ago. What a capable woman! How she had worked, how she had improved the place! They were on the point of selling the inn while her husband was alive. Since then she had paid off the debts, and had repaired the house; moreover, she had built a flight of stone steps, and every one said she had a good sum of money too. Some surmised that she had found a hidden treasure, others that she had dealings with the supernatural.

      Once some robbers attempted an attack upon her. They tried to force the door. One of them, the strongest, a man like a bull, wielded the axe, but when he tried to strike he fell to the ground. They quickly raised him up—he was dead. His brother tried to speak, but could not—he was dumb. There were four of them. They hoisted the dead man on to his brother’s back, the other two took his feet that they might carry him off to bury him somewhere away.

      As they left the courtyard of the inn, Madame Manjoala began to scream from the window, “Thieves!” and in front of her there suddenly appeared the sub-prefect with numerous men and four mounted soldiers. The official shouted:

      “Who is there?”

      Two of the robbers escaped. The dumb man remained behind with his dead brother on his back.

      Now what happened at the trial? Every one knew the mute had been able to speak. How could anyone doubt but that the dumb man was shamming? They beat him till he was crazy to try and make his speech come back, but in vain. Since then the lads had lost all desire to attack the place.

      While all this was passing through my mind I arrived at the inn. A number of carts were waiting in the yard of the inn. Some were carrying timber down the valley; others, maize up the hill.

      It was a raw autumn evening. The drivers were warming themselves round the fire. It was the light from the latter that had been visible so far away. An ostler took my horse in charge to give him some oats in the stable. I entered the tap-room where a good many men were drinking, while two sleepy gipsies, one with a lute and one with a zither, were playing monotonously in a corner. I was hungry and cold. The damp had pierced through me.

      “Where’s your mistress?” I asked the boy behind the bar.

      “By the kitchen fire.”

      “It ought to be warmer there,” I said, and passed through the vestibule, out of the tap-room into the kitchen.

      It was very clean in the kitchen, and the smell was not like that in the tap-room, of fur and boots and damp shoes; there was a smell of new-made bread. Madame Manjoala was looking after the oven.

      “Well met, Mistress Marghioala.”

      “Welcome, Mr. Fanica.”

      “Is there a chance of getting anything to eat?”

      “Up to midnight even, for respectable people like yourself.”

      Mistress Marghioala quickly gave orders to one of the servants to lay a table in the next room, and then, going up to the hearth, said:

      “Look, choose for yourself.”

      Mistress Marghioala was beautiful, well-built and fascinating, that I knew; but never since I had known her—and I had known her for a long time, for I had passed Manjoala’s Inn many a time when my dead father was alive, as the road to the town led by it—had she appeared to me more attractive. I was young, smart and daring, much more daring than smart. I came up on her left side as she was bending over the hearth, and took her by the waist! with my hand I took hold of her right arm, which was as hard as iron, and the devil tempted me to give it a pinch.

      “Have you got nothing to do?” said the woman, looking at me askance.

      But I, to cover my blunder, said:

      “What marvellous eyes you have, Mistress Marghioala!”

      “Don’t try and flatter me; you had better tell me what to give you.”

      “Give me—give me—give me yourself.”

      “Really——”

      “Indeed, you have marvellous eyes, Mistress Marghioala!” sighing.

      “Supposing your father-in-law heard you?”

      “What father-in-law? What do you mean by that?”

      “You think because you hide yourself under your cap that nobody sees what you do. Aren’t you going to Pocovnicu Iordache to engage yourself to his eldest daughter? Come, don’t look at me like that, go into the next room to dinner.”

      I had seen many clean and quiet rooms in the course of my life, but a room like that one! What a bed! What curtains! What walls! What a ceiling! All white as milk. And the lamp-shade, and all those crochet things of every kind and shape! And the warmth, like being under a hen’s wing, and a smell of apples and quinces!

      I was about to seat myself at the table, when, according to a habit I had acquired in my childhood, I turned to bow towards the east. I looked carefully round all along the walls—not an Icon to be seen.

      “What are you looking for?” said Mistress Marghioala.

      “Your Icons. Where do you keep them?”

      “Dash the Icons! They only breed worms and wood-lice.”

      What a cleanly woman! I seated myself at the table, and crossed myself as was my custom, when suddenly there was a yell. It appeared that with the heel of my boot I had trodden upon an old Tom cat which was under the table.

      Mistress Marghioala jumped up quickly and undid the outside door. The injured cat made a bound outside while the cold air rushed in and extinguished the lamp. She groped about for the matches. I searched here, she searched there. We met face to face in the dark. I, very bold, took her in my arms and began to kiss her. The lady now resisted, now yielded; her cheeks were burning, her mouth was cold, soft down fluttered about her ears. At last the servant arrived with a tray with viands on it, and a light. We must have hunted some time for the matches, for the chimney of the lamp was quite cold. I lit it again.

      What excellent food! Hot bread, roast duck with cabbage, boiled veal sausages, and wine! And Turkish coffee! And laughter and conversation! Good luck to Mistress Marghioala!

      After coffee she said to the old maidservant: “Tell them to bring out a half-bottle of muscadine.”

      That wonderful old wine! A sort of languor seized my every limb. I sat on one side of the bed, draining the last amber drops from my glass, and smoking a cigarette,